Contemplations
by Sue
Summary: Movie-verse, TTT. On the night after releasing Frodo, Sam and Gollum, Faramir considers the events of the past few days, and the consequences of his decision.


TITLE: Contemplations  
SUMMARY: Movie-verse, 'Lord of the Rings: the Two Towers'. On the night after releasing Frodo, Sam and Gollum, Faramir considers the events of the past few days, and the consequences of his decision.  
AUTHOR: SueB  
EMAIL: DelanySis1@aol.com  
RATING: G; angst.  
DISCLAIMER: Characters and a very small portion of dialogue in this story are property of the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema. I am making no profit from their use.  
WARNINGS: Possible spoilers for TTT: Extended Edition  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is my interpretation of Faramir's reactions to the events in TTT; it will probably clash with the ideas of other viewers, but this is just the way I see it. Much of this fic is based on events that were not depicted in TTT, due to editing; in those cases I've worked mostly from information taken from the books, the TTT visual Companion, and the Photo Guide. Some of this story will doubtless have to be changed if any of this material is included in the Two Towers Extended Edition and contradicts what I've written here. For now, this is my 'best guess'!  
  
Big thanks to my beta readers Sarah, Joan, Sue, Carla, Mackie and Sara for all of their help and suggestions!! You guys are tops!!  
  
Enjoy!  
  
Sue :)  
  
**********  
  
CONTEMPLATIONS  
  
  
The late-night stars shone brightly over the rare quiet night in Osgiliath. As the silver rays of full spring moonlight flowed over the ancient city's shattered walls and danced upon the waters of the river which ran through its center, the effect of years of siege and war seemed hushed and softened in a sad air of solemn grandeur. Here and there, a fire flickered in well-sheltered corners of the half-destroyed buildings, as men well-used to the grim art of battle made ready for the fighting which would be renewed with the dawn. Despite the scene's tranquility, there was little peace within those broken walls.  
  
On the edge of the abandoned city sat a young man alone, facing across the river into the thick forests which lined the eastern shore. He boasted no fire, and seemed oblivious to the muted activity taking place in the hidden corners behind him. His long, handsome face wore a deeply pensive look as he gazed into the trees, his blue eyes keen and serious, the light cool breeze gently stirring his long reddish-blonde hair. Loosely clutched in one hand was a great longbow which rested against one knee; an arrow was grasped in his other hand, ready for use the instant danger presented itself. Leather vambraces protected his wrists; his chest was covered with a thick leather breastplate, upon which was emblazoned the image of a silver tree crowned with seven stars. But as prepared as the warrior was for the coming day's struggle, it was clear from his expression that his thoughts lay far away.  
  
At length, the gentle sound of footsteps on the soft green grass caught the young man's attention, although he did not turn his gaze away from the forest. He knew from long experience who was approaching him, and was not afraid.  
  
"Any sign of the Orcs, my Lord?"  
  
At this salutation, the young man turned his head towards the ruins. Emerging from their shattered forms was another man, much older, with long gray hair and a sharp, weathered face. His leather armor was much worn and spattered with dust, and even as he approached, he kept a keen eye on the woods. In one hand he clutched a longbow.  
  
The younger man gave a slight smile. "Not as yet, Madril," he replied, in a low, cultured voice. "It appears our most recent activities frightened them back into their holes. Are the men prepared?"  
  
Madril was only a few feet away now; he stopped and bowed a bit. "Yes, Captain Faramir, although most of them are still quite confused about yesterday."  
  
The young Captain shook his head a bit before facing the woods once more. "They would not be the only ones, Madril," he said quietly. After a moment, he dropped his eyes as if thinking of something, then turned back to his lieutenant. "Have Damrod and Mablung returned yet?"  
  
Madril took a seat on a nearby rock, still watching the dark forest as he nodded. "Yes, my Lord, they've gone the whole route through the sewers, and got back a short while ago. Looks like those two small creatures and their odd companion made it out all right; they're probably a good five leagues away by now."  
  
This news seemed to bring great relief to Faramir's heart. "Good," he said with a sigh, turning back to the woods. "May their path be safe for as long as possible. Perhaps our arrows can buy them a bit more time."  
  
"Time, my Lord?"  
  
Faramir's only response was a very slight nod. Otherwise, he remained motionless, and appeared to be slipping back into deep thought as he scanned the woods across the river.  
  
Madril licked his lips, a scowl wrinkling his forehead. "My Lord," he said, in a softer tone, "I have told you, as was my duty, that the men have many questions about what has happened over the past few days. Those small creatures found in the middle of Ithilien..."  
  
Faramir smiled, still watching the woods. "Hobbits, Madril," he said, not moving. "They are called Hobbits. Periannath, in the Elvish tongue. Rather remarkable beings, if the tales in the library of Minas Tirith can be trusted." He shifted his shoulders, readjusting his long green cloak about his shoulders as he added softly, "After the encounter with our two visitors, I certainly agree with them."  
  
"Whatever they were, my Lord," Madril said firmly, "it seems they had no business being in Gondor. The men do not understand how it is that they knew your brother, Lord Boromir-"  
  
Here Faramir's breath seemed to catch suddenly, and his eyes grew swiftly dark with infinite sadness. Still he stared across the river.  
  
"-nor do they know how it is that he could have been driven mad by a ring, as the larger Hobbit claimed. And how is it that the Nazgul was so drawn to the smaller of them? And the creature that was bound to them-why, even those of us who have traveled wide through this world have never seen anything like him. Many of the men, sir, do not know quite what to make of all this."  
  
Silence fell, and for several moments the other man made no motion, the night air filled only with the gentle rippling of the great river as it flowed past.   
  
At length Madril cleared his throat. "And the weapon, sir, that you said would turn our fortunes in this war," he said quietly, his tone rife with curiosity. "The men are wondering about that as well, as am I. Surely it was not those two small wanderers."  
  
A few more minutes of silence. "No," Faramir murmured softly at last, "it was not. But I do not wish to say more of that matter. The men should concern themselves only with holding our position."  
  
Madril gave a short sigh of frustration. "My Lord, it is hard for the men not to be concerned, when it is said that a mighty weapon was in our grasp, and then released. They had heard your words, sir."  
  
The young Captain drew a heavy sigh and glanced at the ground. "The words were folly, Madril," he confessed, "and wrongfully spoken before I fully grasped the situation. I can give the men no answers, except to honor Gondor by turning their minds to her defense."   
  
Madril pursed his lips. "Sir, you should know," he finally said, "I had to stop a few of the men from going against your orders. They wanted to go after the Hobbits and bring them back, to use the weapon they'd heard tell of against our enemies. They fail to see why you let them go, rather than save Gondor."  
  
Faramir lifted his head, looking up at the full moon shining overhead, his face awash in the silver beams. "Had we used that weapon, Madril," he said in a hushed tone, "Gondor would not have been saved, even if it did not fall."  
  
The older man frowned, bewildered. "My Lord?"  
  
Faramir blinked, and looked over at Madril, his face solemn. He seemed to sit deep in thought for a moment, then rose and replaced the arrow he'd been holding back into his quiver.  
  
"I go to patrol the shore," he announced. "The Orcs will doubtless renew their attack at dawn-see that the men are readied. And they are not to pursue the Hobbits, or their companion, who were freed by my command; any man who does so will face the punishment for disobedience. It would be better for our soldiers to think on the day to come, rather than the one that has passed."  
  
The older man rose as well, his expression grim. "They fear only for your welfare, my Lord, you know that," Madril said insistently. "They would give their lives for you."  
  
Faramir was adjusting the strap of his quiver, and allowed himself to smile a bit at his friend's words. "As I would for them," he replied without taking his eyes from his task, though there was no doubting the sincerity in his voice. "It has been my honor to lead such sons of Gondor."  
  
"And they wish you to continue your duty as their leader; I doubt they would follow another," Madril pressed, as his Captain straightened and pulled his cloak about his shoulders. "They know what will happen when your father learns what you have done. He will be most...displeased."  
  
A flicker of sorrow - but no fear - passed over Faramir's handsome features as he squared his shoulders and peered out across the glistening waters. "I know well what to expect from my father, Madril," he whispered. "I knew it ere I gave the order to release the Hobbits. My life will be at his mercy when I return home."  
  
Madril was watching his commander keenly. "Yet you took such a great chance," he finally murmured with a slight shake of his graying head. "Risked the wrath of your father and the salvation of our people. Why?"  
  
The other man pulled his quiver of arrows more firmly onto his shoulder and kept his eyes on the river. "Perhaps when I return from my patrol, my friend," he replied softly, "I shall have an answer for you. Farewell!"  
  
Without a backwards glance, Faramir strode into the darkness and disappeared soundlessly into the surrounding brush.   
  
Madril watched him depart, a sad look of concern and uncertainty on his weathered face.  
  
"Farewell, my Lord," he quietly said, and turning walked slowly back into the ruins of Osgiliath.  
  
  
Darkness enveloped Faramir as he trod the banks along the great river Anduin, the shell of Osgiliath looming behind him in ghostly silence above the trees. As he moved soundlessly through the wild grass, his blue eyes keenly watching for the slightest sign of trouble, his mind could not shut out the memory of Madril's words, or the troubling questions they evoked.  
  
Had it truly been only a few days since they had first come across the Hobbits and their strange companion? A slight frown creased his face as he walked; surely, more time had passed since then. Or perhaps it only felt longer, so much had happened during that short span. His head was still spinning. Who could have guessed, when they found the wanderers, how fateful that meeting would be?  
  
He reached a part of the bank which afforded a good view of the opposing riverside, and stopped. Planting the tip of his longbow into the ground, he crossed one wrist over the other and placed one foot slightly forward, leaning a bit as he observed the black, shadowy forests looming over the moonlit river. Overhead gleamed the brilliant blanket of stars, tiny points of light set against deep blackness. Beneath their silent watch, Faramir kept his own vigil, attentive yet still wrapped in his own contemplations.  
  
Under other circumstances, Faramir would have been delighted and intrigued to find two Hobbits, in Ithilien of all places. Growing up amidst the ancient texts and histories, he had eagerly consumed information on all the races of Middle Earth, despite the fact that such a fondness for book-lore displeased his stern father, Denethor, the Steward of Gondor. He had read much about the Hobbits, but had had little hope of ever seeing one. Had things been different, his chance encounter would have resulted in a far more pleasant questioning, as eager as he was to find out all he could of distant lands and people.  
  
A heavy sadness fell over Faramir's heart as he looked over the rippling Anduin waters. If only it could have been so...  
  
Faramir sighed a bit as he tried to ignore the weariness that threatened to overwhelm his spirit. It had become difficult to remember a time when doom did not seem to assail him from every side, when Gondor seemed ready, despite all of his best and most desperate efforts, to be crushed beneath Mordor's relentless might. How long had they been fighting, with few victories to show for their blood and suffering? How many of his men had fallen to Mordor's blades, and him powerless to stop it? It felt like ages.  
  
Grim scenes passed before his mind, the utter hopelessness of Gondor's plight looming ever larger as the memories emerged. He could scarcely recall a time when he had not been aware of the threat of Mordor, when he had not seen the black-red sky in the East, and heard the portentous thunder of Sauron's growing might. As a very young but observant child, he had noticed that the adults around him always seemed afraid, even if he had not known why. Questions rarely led to answers, perhaps because he was so young; the insecurity led to nightmares, until, after one particularly bad dream had left him sobbing in Boromir's arms, his brother had told him the truth, as simply as he could. And on that night, Faramir learned about Mordor, and its Dark Lord Sauron.  
  
Faramir gasped to himself a bit at the memory; it was quite vivid, to the point where he could feel the hot tears on his cheeks, and the warmth of his brother's arms around him. He could almost hear Boromir's comforting words on the night breeze as he tried to soothe away the child's fears. 'You don't have to worry,' the older boy had promised, 'not while I'm here.' And, reassured, Faramir had gone back to sleep in his brother's arms.  
  
A sudden chill in the air caused Faramir to shiver, and he shook himself, blinking back tears as the present world reappeared before his eyes. After a moment, he sighed and wiped his eyes as the memory receded, replaced by a darker reality in which there was no brother to offer comfort, and in which no stranger, however innocent-looking, could be trusted. But even as the reverie ended, the sorrow lingered in his heart, as it had since the day he had learned of his brother's death.  
  
Events from the recent past tumbled quickly yet clearly through his mind, beginning with the day which had set the fateful chain in motion. A dream had come to him several times; in it, he had seen the skies of the East turn black, countered only by a small, faint light glimmering in the West. Voices had filled his head, warning of approaching doom, ending their call with mysterious words: "Isildur's Bane is found!"   
  
Faramir had been subject to unusual dreams all of his life, dreams that warned and foretold; as he had before, he had confessed this one to Boromir, who was also puzzled. In his heart, Faramir feared as he never had before; was the coming doom that of Gondor, or of all Middle-Earth? No mention of it was made to their father, a stern man who had little use for premonitions. Or, thought Faramir sadly, for Faramir himself.  
  
Then Boromir had the same dream, once, and the matter acquired a new importance.  
  
The young Captain could vividly recall the day he and Boromir had stood before their father and revealed the strange vision. It seemed to warn of the impending downfall of Gondor, as well as its means of slavation, the Steward surmised; swift action had to be taken. A decision was quickly made; Boromir would ride out and find Imladris, seek out Isildur's Bane, and return with it to Gondor so that its might could be used for her defense. On his knees, Boromir had pledged to do all in his power to save Gondor and the White City, swearing to bring the great weapon home. Faramir could yet see his father's bitter face smile as he beheld Boromir, the hard blue eyes full of pride and love.  
  
Then those eyes had turned to Faramir, and all softness within them fled.  
  
Faramir sighed to himself as he leaned his cheek upon his bow and stared into the glittering waters of the Anduin. He had never quite known why his father, whom he had loved and respected since childhood, despised him so much. Perhaps Denethor felt he bore some blame for the death of their mother, the beautiful and gentle Finduilas, who had passed on when Faramir was only five and Boromir ten. Perhaps his birth had weakened her, although he had also heard it said that she pined away behind Minas Tirith's stone walls while longing for her seaside home, Dol Amroth. He remembered clearly her soft arms and quiet voice, and sorely missed her. Boromir had often said their father changed after her death, retreating increasingly into anger and despair which often found their outlet in his youngest son.  
  
For as long as Faramir could recall, their father had made no secret of his preference for Boromir, using every opportunity to praise his heir and make it plain that all of Gondor's hopes rested upon those broad shoulders. To Faramir's everlasting relief, however, this fact failed to place any kind of strain on the relationship between himself and his favored sibling; if anything, it drew them closer to each other, as Boromir strove to protect his brother from their father's unpredictable moods. The unhappy circumstance seemed to make the elder boy all the more determined to prove to Faramir that there would always be, at least, one family member who loved him.  
  
But from his father, there were no words of pride and love for him during that last meeting, only a terse reminder of the command to slay all suspicious strangers found in Ithilien. Then, after a few parting words to Boromir-who had seemed very uncomfortable with their father's actions, but dared not say so-the meeting had ended, leaving Faramir only with the familiar, bewildered pain of a love unreturned.  
  
It was in the coolness of the following morning that Boromir had departed on his mission. There had only been time for a hasty farewell, but Faramir could still feel the warmth of his brother's last embrace.   
  
"You shall keep those Orcs busy, I've no doubt of that," Boromir had said as he mounted his horse, smiling with confidence all the while. "With good fortune, I shall soon return with the means to end the suffering of our land and people." Then he had faced Faramir, his expression solemn in the pale morning light. "May the Valar keep you safe, so that we may both live to see that day."  
  
Faramir had returned the blessing, and then watched as his brother's dark form rode off into the dawn, the desperate hopes of Gondor upon his shoulders.  
  
Unbidden, another recollection sprang to Faramir's mind, of the vision he had seen one night while standing watch along the Anduin some few weeks ago. Once more, Faramir could see the mysterious gray boat gliding along the silent waters, glimmering with an ethereal light. As it drew closer, he had discerned that the small craft was almost full of luminescent water, and cradled within that water was the body of his beloved brother. Before he could reach out and touch the boat, it moved on down the river as if guided by an unseen hand, and Faramir could only watch as it drifted out to the Sea. He was not sure of the vision's origin, only of its reality; he had been fully awake, and still felt the all-consuming grief that had pierced his soul that night. Its meaning was plain: his brother was dead, his mission unfulfilled, and there were none who could answer his questions and assuage his grief until that fateful afternoon in Ithilien when they found the Hobbits.  
  
How remarkable, Faramir mused as he continued his watch, that of all beings he should meet in the wilds, his men should find two who had known his brother. He could still recall the shock of finding out their acquaintance, although at the time it had earned them little merit in his eyes. With Gondor's situation so perilous, no unknown traveler could be dismissed as harmless, even two small Hobbits, and their behavior had been most unsettling.   
  
It had been clear from the start that they were hiding something, and the thought that it might involve the death of his dear brother had only made Faramir more suspicious. They would answer none of his pleas for information of Boromir's fate, whether through ignorance or guilt he could not tell. The discovery of the Hobbits' deceit concerning their odd traveling companion had only compounded Faramir's distrust. The opportunity to detain and question the creature had afforded him some satisfaction; here, perhaps, he had thought, he would find out the secret.  
  
Faramir pursed his lips as he remembered that night. If only he had realized then how dire the secret truly was...  
  
He had heard of the Rings of Power, their tales buried amongst the dusty pages of lore in the libraries of Minas Tirith. It was often hard to separate their existence from the fanciful tales of myth, and few outside of himself seemed interested in hearing about them. He and Boromir had been tutored in their land's history, which told of Isildur cutting a mighty Ring from Sauron's hand and bearing it to his death. Boromir had been fascinated by the military aspects of the tale, while Faramir had been intrigued by the mysterious Ring itself.   
  
He had tried to glean more from his ancestors' writings, but as Denethor disapproved of his youngest son spending so much time among the ancient books, he had been able to learn little of it beyond its great power. Faramir had mentioned the possibility of the 'Isildur's Bane' in their dreams as being this Ring to Boromir, but the idea was only one of several possibilities as to the object's identity.  
  
Then, as he questioned the pitiful being who called himself Smeagol in the cave of Henneth Annun, more clues to the secret, and the dream, were revealed to him. Frodo Baggins had somehow wronged this creature, and had stolen something from him-it was all quite confusing. The key, it seemed, lay in the pilfered object. As he pressed Smeagol further, he never imagined the vicious response he would receive, or the enraged shriek and look of fury which accompanied the answer, contained in a single word-"Precious!"  
  
Faramir could still feel the shock that had run through him; he had heard that word before, in the ancient texts long ago. It was a term Isildur had used to describe his attachment to the Ring. For a moment he had been stunned; could it possibly be true?  
  
Then he was running, to where the Hobbits were kept. His hand was on the hilt of his sword; he did not want to harm the Hobbits, but the situation had taken a very dangerous turn. If Frodo Baggins truly had the Ring, he would have to be regarded as a possible foe of potentially lethal strength, and there was no telling how he would use that strength once confronted.  
  
Fortunately, Faramir recalled, the Hobbit did not lash out upon his appearance, and within moments the Captain of Gondor found himself staring at the small, golden Ring gleaming against the Hobbit's chest. For an instant Faramir could only gaze at it, numb with awe, as the meaning of his dream became plain. Isildur's Bane had truly been found.  
  
The realization that he had before his eyes the fabled mightiest of weapons, the One Ring, had struck Faramir to his core. The horrible portent of his dream had long burdened his mind; the resulting dread had been mounting with each passing day, dread that Gondor would still fall, despite all that he and his men could do, despite all that his dear brother had done...it may yet all be for nothing...  
  
This dread had vanished the moment he had laid eyes on the Ring.  
  
Faramir had always considered himself a man of clear thinking, yet rarely had he experienced such clarity of mind as at that instant. It had been as if all burdens of fear and uncertainty had been lifted, all doubts erased. At once he had known exactly what his course should be; it was so apparent as to almost frighten him.  
  
He would take the Ring, and send it to Minas Tirith to be used in the defense of his beloved land. What better way to honor his brother than to fulfill the mission which had been so mysteriously cut short? Was this not what Boromir would have wanted, for his kin to take up the quest from his fallen hand? Surely the Valar had brought this chance to him, and his brother's spirit would rest all the better knowing his goal had been accomplished!  
  
And their father-what joy it would bring to that faltering heart to know that his beloved son's last task had been completed! In the vision, Faramir could so clearly see his father taking his hand, and kissing his brow with love and pride, bestowing his blessing for all to see. Faramir had wished with all of his breaking heart for such a token of affection, a desire he would now be able to see turned to reality. Tears stung his eyes at the prospect of it.  
  
More sights, terrible and wondrous, had swiftly unfolded before him as he regarded the Ring. Gondor driving Mordor's forces from its gates forever, the Dark Lord thrown down and defeated, the darkness of the East driven away as the pale glow of the West became a flood of dazzling light. The White City would survive, just as Boromir had wanted, mightier than before, and fit to endure for untold ages to come. For his brother's memory, his father's love, and Gondor's salvation-the answer to all of these was so clear now, and right before him. He had only to reach out and grasp it-  
  
Then, as Faramir remembered, Frodo had cried out and turned away. And suddenly, as quickly as they had come, the visions were gone.  
  
As soon as the startling images had fled, Faramir had been consumed with bewilderment. He had not known where those strange yet compelling ideas had come from. It had been as if his entire being were suddenly consumed with a cold, dispassionate lucidity, in which his only goal was to see the visions before him brought to fruition. Their tempting forms had lingered in his mind, begging to be turned to reality, all with one easy action. It would have been quite simple. Yet something had stayed his hand...  
  
Another memory had intruded then as he studied the Hobbits and considered his decision, almost as puzzling as the enigmatic visions. He was a very young child, and Boromir had taken him up to the top of the Tower of Ecthelion for the first time. He could see the wide blue sky, feel the warm sunshine and gentle wind, the whole of Minas Tirith spread out far below. At some point, Boromir's attention had wandered for a moment, and during that time Faramir had managed to climb onto the low wall, and for a moment tottered on the wide ledge, delighted at the magnificent view and heedless of the danger he was in. An instant later, he heard Boromir cry out in alarm, the most fearful shout he had ever heard come from his brother's lips. Although there was more to the incident, it was here that the memory stopped.  
  
This recollection sprang to Faramir's mind as he stared at Frodo and the Ring; its vividness gave him pause, his brother's long-ago warning cry ringing through his mind as if it had happened that very moment. There seemed no cause for him to suddenly summon that childhood memory; it had simply sprung into his mind the moment he considered taking the Ring, and then vanished.   
  
Then the gardener, Samwise Gamgee, had begged Faramir to help his master. Faramir had been confused, unsure-it was plain the Hobbit was suffering, although he had no idea as to the cause of his anguish.  
  
Madril had entered at that moment, with the news of Osgiliath's embattled state. A decision had to be made quickly. Faramir had glanced at Frodo's tormented face, and the pleading expression of his companion. Surely the small one could not bear such a burden and survive, he had realized; it would be better for him, for them all, if men of strength assumed its weight. It would likely only kill Frodo; in Gondor's hands, it could save all of Middle Earth.  
  
And his decision had been made. The Ring would be taken to Minas Tirith.  
  
That had been a long and desperate journey, through the woods of Ithilien, trying to avoid the eyes of the Orcs as they moved with all possible speed to Osgiliath. His heart had been heavy for the whole trek, and this had puzzled him greatly. The decision would save many lives, grant peace to his brother, bring him the long-denied love of his father-how was it, then, that it brought him such unease? And there was the strange half-memory of the long-ago day on the tower that came repeatedly to his mind, his brother's horrified cry echoing in his head for some unknown purpose. Perhaps his intuition was warning him not to let the Ring escape.  
  
As they marched, Faramir had felt Frodo's pleading blue eyes on him, and heard his requests to be set free, his pleas releasing a tumult of conflicting feelings within the young Captain's heart. It was plain the Hobbit was in agony, wearying beneath the burden of carrying the mighty Ring; why, then, did Frodo not see what a release it would be for it to pass on to stronger hands? It had been puzzling, and his decision seemed less firm than before. But how could he betray his brother's cause, and bring Gondor to ruin by depriving it of its only hope for survival?  
  
Osgiliath had been besieged and burning when their small, weary band had struggled into its smoldering walls. The sight of the embattled ancient capital broke Faramir's heart, as it always did, but at least he had had hope this time. Osgiliath's perilous state had only strengthened his resolve; the Ring had to be delivered to his father, and quickly if they were to have any chance of fighting back the forces of the Dark Lord.   
  
He had almost set the Hobbits on the road to Minas Tirith; it was much safer for them than to remain in the beleaguered city, and he was certain his father would treat them well. There seemed little else for him to do, if he meant to save his land and his people.  
  
And then...  
  
"Do you want to know how your brother died?"  
  
It had been the gardener, Samwise Gamgee, who had spoken, his voice full of pleading anger. The words had certainly caught Faramir's attention, cutting him straight to the heart; his dearest desire was to know how Boromir had met his fate. But something had whispered to him, as he turned to face the small Hobbit, that these would not be easy words to hear.   
  
"He tried to take the Ring from Frodo," Samwise had said, his simple words full of anger and disappointment. "After swearing an oath to protect him, he tried to kill him! The Ring drove your brother mad!"  
  
As the words pierced through his soul, Faramir had stopped breathing, stopped thinking, and found himself unable to do anything but stare at Samwise. His blood ran cold as he contemplated their meaning; how could a Ring, however powerful, have done such a thing? He tore his gaze away from the gardener and glanced at Frodo, and the small bauble hanging by a chain around his neck. As his eyes fixed on the Ring, he recalled the strange, detached clarity he had felt in the cave when he had first beheld it, the odd visions he had seen, their alluring images almost painfully compelling. The instant he once more laid eyes on the Ring, he felt the icy caress brush his mind again.   
  
And suddenly, Faramir understood. The visions had not come from his own imagining.  
  
It had been the Ring. Whispering to his mind, as it had whispered to his brother. Tempting him to madness...  
  
At that moment, the Nazgul had appeared, and for a brief time all revelations were thrown aside as he strove to find shelter for the two small Hobbits. Even as he thrust Frodo and Samwise into a corner and begged them to take cover, he could feel the creature's evil presence and hear the horrible thunder of its steed's monstrous wings. It was only after he had left them and rushed to find a suitable vantage point to launch an attack that he allowed himself to contemplate the gardener's wrenching words.  
  
It seemed impossible, Faramir had thought as he climbed a shattered battlement. Boromir had always been a man of honor; an oath was sacred to him, as it was to all men of Gondor. None of them swore such a thing without being willing to die rather than break their word. What evil could have compelled him to do such a thing, to attack a small one such as Frodo and abandon reason for insanity? There was only one darkness foul enough to so cloud the mind of his gallant brother.  
  
The sorcery of the Lord of Mordor, the maker of the Ring.  
  
Faramir's mind had been racing even as he rushed into the muted daylight, watching as the fiendish shape of the Nazgul appeared in the sky. Sauron had made the Ring; clearly, he had bound not only his might but his evil will into its golden band. Somehow it was alive, and able to call others to its bidding. The riddle of his dream now appeared plain; the finding of Isildur's Bane was not the salvation from the coming doom, but the cause of it, and it would stop at nothing to extinguish the pale light of the West and enshroud the world in darkness forever. Faramir had no doubt, now, of what had happened to him in the cave; the Ring was calling to him, enticing him with his heart's desires, urging him to take it to Minas Tirith-and closer to its creator and master. As it must have called to Boromir...  
  
His breath had caught in his throat then, even as the Nazgul had swooped overhead. How had the Ring tormented his brother, as desperate as he had been for any way to rescue Gondor from its doom? How cruelly had it twisted his will, driving him to madness in his desire to free their people? Faramir's heart nearly broke as he thought of his brother's suffering. He could still feel the chilling touch of the Ring upon his own mind; how much colder must its grasp have been to Boromir, for him to so forget his noble bearing!   
  
Wrapped as he had been in his thoughts, Faramir could yet recall feeling amazed at the sight of the little Hobbit, Frodo, who suddenly appeared atop one of the high stone platforms. Frodo had moved slowly, calmly, as if unaware of the peril he was in. Why had he left his shelter when the Nazgul was so close?  
  
Alas, the Nazgul had seen him as well, and within moments was upon him.  
  
The Hobbit's back had been to Faramir, and he could see nothing of what Frodo was doing. He could only perceive that the Wraith appeared to be aware of him, although he made no move towards him. From what he had learned of the Nazgul, Faramir knew the foul creature would be unable to see Frodo, yet for several moments the Wraith had hovered near him, drawing closer with each passing second.   
  
His heart pounding, Faramir had swiftly notched an arrow, but before he could fire he saw the gardener appear and knock his master none too gently from his dangerous perch. Then the Wraith's fell beast had let out a horrifying shriek, its claws reaching for the small, defenseless creatures. Praying that his aim was true, Faramir quickly raised his bow and let fly at the creature. With satisfaction he had watched as the shaft plunged into the beast's chest; it had cried out in rage and pain, and after a moment pounded its massive leathery wings against the air and swooped off.  
  
Rushing quickly to the edge of his vantage point, the young Captain peered intensely over the side, desperate to see if the Hobbits had survived their fall unharmed.  
  
What he had seen caused his entire being to go as cold as the deepest winter chill.  
  
Samwise was on his back, seemingly intact from the fall; but now he was gazing up with a pleading, frightened expression on his face, for there was someone kneeling on his chest, forcing him to the ground with one hand while holding a sword to his throat with the other. And that person, to Faramir's horror, was Frodo - Frodo, whom he had perceived to be a mild and gentle being, whom had heretofore pleaded earnestly for the life of the wretched creature Smeagol, and to whom Samwise had been nothing but a devoted and loyal friend!  
  
Frodo, who had at that moment seemed intent on nothing more than plunging his sword through the chest of his most faithful companion in the world.  
  
Faramir had stared at the scene, horrified, aware now of what had happened. It was the Ring again; there could be no other explanation. It had taken Frodo's mind, summoned him to the heights to meet the Nazgul, stripped him of his gentle nature in its desire to punish the one who had interfered with its design. He shivered, awestruck at the magnitude of the evil he was witnessing.   
  
Sam was speaking, his eyes full of tears; Faramir could hear nothing of his words, but was greatly relieved to see Frodo's hand falter, then drop his blade and fall away from his friend.  
  
Madril had then appeared, Faramir remembered, summoning him down to the ground to oversee the aftermath of the attack. The Orc's bows and catapults had fallen silent, and they had to move swiftly before the next onslaught began.  
  
Faramir's heart had been heavy, his mind full as he and Madril had descended the stone steps to the street below. His decision, so clear and firm not long ago, lay shattered now; there was only one course to choose, though the choice would likely prove to be his own undoing. Yet he could not allow such darkness into his beloved kingdom, not even to save it. He still heard the warning cry of his brother from that long-ago day atop the White Tower, and understood now its meaning.  
  
It would not be Boromir's wish for such an evil thing to be taken to their city, and placed in the hands of their father, whose mind was already wavering. His brother had felt its cruel touch, had bent beneath its malicious voice. Faramir felt certain in his soul, now, that what Boromir would have desired more than anything would be the destruction of this abominable creation, so that its power could never bring suffering to the world again. If Sauron's evil will was bound to the Ring, he too would be destroyed, and Mordor would fall at last. Thinking of how the wretched thing had caused his brother to endure such agony had given Faramir an even sharper desire to see the Ring's might extinguished. There seemed but one path to that end, and he was now determined to take it, though it would cost him dearly.  
  
There would be no words of love from his father at his homecoming now, when Faramir returned without the Ring. A burning sensation had twisted his heart as he foresaw how the Steward would greet him; no explanations would temper his rage, or prevent the bitter accusations of incompetence and treason. Faramir had shuddered at the image; how would he be able to bear such anger from the man whose love he wanted most?  
  
They had reached the street; he could hear Samwise speaking now, his words broken and halting but remarkably eloquent. A sudden weariness overtaking him, Faramir had leaned himself against a doorway, listening quietly to the Hobbit's earnest words.  
  
"But in the end, it's only a passing thing, this shadow," Samwise was saying, his voice choked with tears. "Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something. Even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back only they didn't. Because they were holding on to something."  
  
Faramir had heard Frodo's voice then, still and bewildered among the towering ruined walls. "What are we holding onto, Sam?"  
  
After a few moments, he had heard the gardener's answer, spoken with a firmness which resounded through his heart with its soft simplicity. "That there's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo. And it's worth fighting for."  
  
Faramir had sighed to himself, dropping his eyes as a somber feeling flowed over him. It would be hard to face his father, and hear the hoped-for words of love and approval turned to sharp arrows barbed with disparagement and coldness. But even harder would be to succumb to the cruel temptation, knowing that it would curse his soul and the soul of Gondor to enslavement beneath Sauron's evil will. The way he was choosing was one of pain and darkness for himself; but he found strength in the plain words of the Hobbit, and resolved to endure whatever might lay in store for him, for the love of his brother, his father, and his country.  
  
Drawing a deep breath, Faramir had then stepped forward.  
  
He could see them both now, standing together amidst the ruins, but they did not take notice of him until he drew near. Sam glannced up at him, his expression one of unease, and after a moment Frodo turned to face him as well. The Ringbearer's face was pale and drawn, and he seemed so small against the high ancient bastions of Osgiliath. As Faramir regarded him now, he felt his soul flood with admiration for the Hobbit. What immeasurable bravery must the Hobbit possess, to know the cruel heaviness of his evil burden, yet insist on bearing it to the last, regardless of the price?   
  
"I see now the truth of your words," he had told Frodo as he stood before them, in reply to the puzzlement in the Hobbit's eyes. "This evil must be destroyed, and I free you now to fulfill that task. I ask only that you forgive me, that I did not see at first; that blindness has ended, and I swear no more harm shall befall you in Gondor, in honor of the weight you have chosen to bear for us all."  
  
With a solemn expression he had then knelt before Frodo, as the courageous Hobbit deserved, addressing him as a fellow soldier against the darkness.   
  
"I think at last we understand each other, Frodo Baggins."  
  
His men had been most surprised at this, he thought as the scene played out in his mind once more, and Madril had been swift to remind him of Denethor's orders. To free them would be to disobey the orders of the Steward, and to place his own life at mortal risk.  
  
An immense sadness had swept over Faramir at that moment. He had known full well the chance he was taking, as he stood before the captive Hobbits, their lives in his hands. In his heart, he could see the agonizing price his decision would exact. The bright visions had danced briefly before his eyes once more, until he had thought his yearning to achieve them would break his heart.   
  
Then Faramir had remembered the inevitable cost of this dream, and knew what his verdict would have to be. With sorrow he watched the alluring promises of the Ring glimmer and die; perhaps one day they would be achieved, but the road to that time lay far before him. He would not choose the easy path.  
  
Then he had ordered the Hobbits, and the Ring, released to go on their way.  
  
His men had thought him mad; he had seen it in their eyes, even if none of them would dare speak it. The Hobbits seemed scarcely more certain of his sanity, but they had not questioned their sudden freedom. Faramir had seen the bewildered looks, but remained firm; his duty now was to set Frodo on his way, then prepare himself to meet his own fate.   
  
He had led them, then, to the sewers of Osgiliath, knowing it to be the safest route out of the ruined city; from there they could slip past the Orc-infested forests and into clear territory. Frodo had seemed a bit startled when, as they parted, Faramir knelt once more before the Ringbearer, aware now of the weight of the Hobbit's loathsome burden, and uttered his farewell: "Go, Frodo, go, with the good will of all Men."  
  
And the small group had disappeared into the sewers, likely never more to be seen by the youngest son of the Steward. Perhaps they would fail in their quest, or succeed; he could only pray to the Valar now to make their journey a safe one. He had his own path to travel, and its perils were daunting as well. But he had chosen his road, as they had chosen theirs, and he harbored in his heart a small hope that perhaps one day those roads would cross once more.  
  
Faramir lifted his head and studied the blazing stars overhead, his mood pensive as he considered what lay before him now. If he survived the coming battles, and managed to return to Minas Tirith, he would have to face his father. It would be an agonizing meeting; what words could he use to make the Steward see the reason he had let the Ring go? His father would scourge him with words of scorn and disappointment, accuse him of disloyalty, and yet Faramir had done this out of deepest devotion and love for his father and Gondor. He would rather die himself than let the evil of Sauron touch either of them. It would take all of his powers of reason to make his father see this point. Silently he prayed to the Valar for wisdom, and watched the stars.  
  
His mind turned to Boromir as he surveyed the heavens; the stars had shone as brightly as this, the night he had seen that mysterious boat bathed in light. Sam's words came back to him, their sharpness stabbing through his heart: 'The Ring drove your brother mad...' Faramir understood that madness now, but felt certain the earnest Hobbit had not known all there was to his brother's death. The face of the man he had seen in the boat was not that of a madman; instead, it had been full of indescribable peace, so complete and beautiful that it brought tears to Faramir's eyes to think on it. Boromir had not died in insanity; somehow, before his spirit passed beyond creation, his brother had found a means to place his soul at utter rest. No, there was more to the tale; with good fortune, he would survive to learn of it, or else be able to hear the story from the lips of his brother himself.  
  
A new thought entered Faramir's mind as he sat thinking, and a wistful smile crossed his face. It was another part of his old memory, of the day he and Boromir had scaled the White Tower and Faramir had almost plunged to his death. But he no longer heard only the warning shout; the recollection now played out to its end, in which Boromir had grabbed him from the dangerous perch and pulled him back to safety. So terrified had his brother been that he had done nothing for several minutes afterwards but hold Faramir in the tightest of embraces as the both of them knelt on the cold tower floor, Boromir sobbing with relief that he had saved his brother from a terrible fate.  
  
Strange, thought Faramir as he watched the stars, that he could still feel the warmth of that embrace on this calm spring night, as if his brother's arms encircled him once more; he could almost hear the words of joy at his salvation sounding again in his ear. It was likely only the passing breeze, yet the young Captain of Gondor preferred to believe otherwise.  
  
He scanned the sky and frowned a bit. A faint pink light was brushing the sky to the East; dawn was approaching, and with it the promise of battle. The Orcs would be stirring from their respite soon, and before long the tranquil spring air would be torn asunder with arrows and deadly missiles. The time for thought was over.  
  
Faramir gripped his bow and took a deep breath. It had felt good to put the past few days' events in order, even if their outcome was still most uncertain. He felt more sure now that his decision had been correct; he might perish for it, yet if Frodo succeeded in destroying the Ring, and with it Sauron's power, he could but count it a fair loss. The exhilaration of envisioning a Middle Earth free of Mordor's cursed blight was enough to send his heart soaring; he resolved to hold on to that, and let it give him strength for the task ahead.   
  
He turned around, and slowly walked back to Osgiliath as the first of the evening stars faded before the coming of the sun.  
  
THE END  
  
Thanks for reading! Feedback always welcome! :)  
  
Sue


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